Do We REALLY Have to Work?


I have a strong tendency towards laziness.

I love to just sit and think or allow my mind to wander in whatever direction it desires.

I’m so lazy that I don’t even give my brain directions about what it should think about. It decides and I just watch and follow. It’s a stream that meanders in all directions with no riverbanks to restrict its flow.


The other day my brain decided that I’m going to stop working for a living.

Just like that, no job.

I’m not retiring, I’m quitting. And it’s not because I don’t like my job or my boss. My boss is great, and most days my job is pretty good.

So … What’s Up, you ask?

Jesus didn’t have a job.

Well, some say he was a carpenter, but I can’t find any pictures, descriptions, or drawings of his work, and I did a full Google search.


Unlike Muhammad, he didn’t become a Dad, so he wasn’t a stay-at-home working parent while his wife was out making the bacon (she wouldn’t be Jewish I guess). Some suggest he was a bootlegger who turned water into wine and then sold it to his followers who grew in numbers because they liked his stuff, but that’s just idle rumour.

Jesus had a dream job of being a saviour. How many kids tell their Grade 2 class they want to grow up to be a Saviour? None in my school certainly.

But truthfully, I don’t want to be a saviour… too many liability issues and guilt. And then you end up crucified.

I’m seeking out a sunny field of tranquillity. It’s a kind of mid-life crisis of form and understanding, a nighttime retreat into the womb of safety and comfort.  To be childlike and carefree with only the smell of green grass and sand between my toes, swing sets in the park, ice cream on the beach. A job implies responsibility and worry over bills and leaks in the roof.

Engagement and enjoyment of life is defined both by what we do for a paycheque and what we do as passion. Sometimes they coincide and often they run separate roads.

I don’t think I’m alone in my thinking. After all, millions have read the 4 Hour Work Week and The Joy of Not Working . How many of the thousands of people working at WalMart are there because they love to work? –Damn, ANOTHER clean up in Aisle 7. Hell, even the CEO is only really there because he gets a HUGE paycheque that lets him do the things he really wants to do.

Money-spewing lotteries are over-the-top popular because the multitudes hope and pray that a few lucky numbers will give them their dream job of a life of no work. It’s an ubiquitous feeling that work is a penance we pay so that we can eat and have a boat to fish from off a sunny Caribbean beach for 2 weeks every winter.


I’ll admit that jobs have their place. A job is an important source of social capital, it provides daily structure for many, a place to meet friends and kindle romances, a detouring path away from crime and prison for young men, an example of industriousness and duty to children and a source of self-respect for parents.

But really, nobody has a born purpose in life to buy and sell stocks. Or create an ad agency. Or ride a dusty tractor all day long. Or work in a cubicle. Those are tiny side effects of being alive. We’re conditioned in western society from Day 1 to build ourselves into a work machine that produces something of value that others are willing to pay something for.

No matter how much talent and ability and know-how we possess and want the world to beat a path to our personal toll booth, dropping gold coins into our pocket of wealth, unless what we have to offer is desirable at a reasonable price, we starve.

People start up businesses by the hundreds and thousands every week, and then a short year later they shutter the front door forever because their incredible (to them) idea for sponging up currency that couldn’t go wrong, didn’t connect. Dreams are shattered and bankruptcies are born.

The real purpose is to do the things you enjoy, with the people you enjoy and who inspire you, as much as possible. If this happens in a job setting, great. But for the majority in this world of billions of souls, work life is lived as Bob Cratchit under the heavy thumb of their own Scrooge.  Work is a necessity, undertaken as a servitude for a turkey on the table at Christmas and some coal in the winter stove.

So we’ll continue working to survive like we always have. Maybe someday we’ll devise a way to put a million dollars in each baby’s bank account at birth and the work week will become a relic of an ancient era. Robots and technology will run our factories and our supermarkets and our transit and sewage systems.

Robot in home

I wish I could live to see such a day, but I consider myself lucky to see this moment in history when I can push a switch and my house is instantly made cozy warm, or refreshingly cool. In winter, I can fly like a bird to an exotic beach with loads of fresh, juicy fruit and cold bottles of beer laid out for my picking. If I want to read any magazine or book, I can open an electronic gizmo and have it sent instantaneously through the electronic ether to my lap. While I sit in front of a huge entertainment centre in my living room with 1000’s of movies and other media delights at my fingertips.

Most of my weekly blog posts are about 1,000 words long.  It’s a good length that doesn’t usually tax you, the reader, too much.  I was going to quit at 800 words today and just relax on my sunny, warm deck.

But this luxuriously wandering, creating mind that wants me to quit my job just wouldn’t listen and take direction from me.

I guess I’ll go on being lazy, starting tomorrow…

Lazy cat

Death of an Everyday Senior


I’ve mused here before about how I might like to die.

Surely, since we don’t seem to have the choice over whether we die, we should be able to exercise the choice of how we might die … it’s only fair, right?

A truly loving God would acquiesce and give us that much. Merely munching an apple offered by a snivelling snake shouldn’t take away all rights and freedoms, should it?


And so in the spirit of my despair over lack of choice, the following is a true-to-life little black-humour tale of :


About 10 years ago, in the small’ish lab in which I work on the 3rd floor of a medical building in downtown Penticton, it was approaching 5 p.m. and near closing time for the day. I was putting the last samples of patient urine and stool onto agar-culture plates to incubate and grow bacteria overnight. Yes, somebody really does have to do this!

In the front patient-section of the lab, an elderly gentleman – we’ll call him Mr. Jones – was stretched out long on a thin mattress-covered table in a small private alcove. Liz, one of the lab assistants, was placing little sticky electrodes across his bared chest so she could perform an ECG (electrocardiogram).


Even dogs can have an ECG done…

Penticton sports a mild climate – by Canadian standards – and mixed with sun and beaches this means that the city is full of retirees. End result? The lab performs a lot of ECG’s to check on the ticker health of local seniors.

In a turn that no one anticipated, suddenly, unexpectedly, Mr. Jones gasped weakly and went limp and unresponsive … cardiac arrest. His skin tones dissolved into an ashen grey and his mouth sagged open … breathing came to a halt along with his heart.

All the stops were pulled out to resuscitate him.

Within minutes, the lab was jammed with firefighters, ambulance paramedics, police, doctors, and 5 or 6 of us lab folks.

The poor fellow was hoisted unceremoniously off the ECG bed like a limp Muppet and laid out in the middle of the lab floor. People in white coats and various other uniforms pumped and suctioned and intubated and shocked his poor spiritless body, doggedly determined to save this life and and AND…BUT…



The frenetic movements and loud voices of the medics gradually stilled and bit-by-bit a calm settled over the room.

It was over … Mr. Jones was over. Nothing more to be done. Just take the body away and everyone could go home.

And so the firefighters departed … and then the doctors … and since it was now well past closing time, all the lab staff melted away as I had volunteered to hang around and lock up once Mr. Jones was packaged up and taken away.

And THEN, the police and paramedics started to leave…HUH…

But, what about Mr. Jones?“, I inquired.

He was still placidly laid out on the floor with tubes sticking out everywhere… plasticy grey-skinned but otherwise quite peaceful looking. He seemed content.

Well“, said the paramedics, “we only transport living patients to the hospital, and since he’s deceased, our job is done here“.  Off they went….


Well… the doctor was here and declared it a normal death, no criminal concerns, so we’re out of here too. Try calling the coroner to see what she wants done with him“.


Suddenly, the lab door closes. All is deathly quiet and Mr. Jones and I looked at each other (metaphorically, of course) with puzzlement. He might have even grinned ironically at me, but I think my mind was perhaps playing little games on me at this point.

After a moment of absorbing the situation, I finally phoned the coroner. I explained the full story to her in great detail, and then she broke out laughing (it’s a morbid world I live in!). There was no foul play involved and so she too determined that it didn’t involve her.


Me-“oh yeah, so what do I do now, just cart Mr. Jones home to meet the family?

She suggested I call the man’s family at home to see if there was a funeral home that they would like me to call and have Mr. Jones picked up. Kind of like calling 1-800-GOT-JUNK for a pickup.

GREAT…I get to break the news to Mrs. Jones that she can put that dinner plate back in the cupboard because Mr. Jones ain’t coming home for his supper. They didn’t teach us this stuff in lab school.

My heart was beating fast and hard when I dialled the Jones’ home number…a man’s voice answered…

Hello, is this the Jones’ residence?

Yes, this is Dr. Jim Striker, Mr. and Mrs. Jones’ family doctor.

Umm, I was just calling to tell Mrs. Jones about an unfortunate event concerning her husband-

Yes, I know…my brother Mark was the Doc that attempted to revive Mr. Jones at the scene…he called me to let me know that Mr. Jones had passed, so I came to the family home to break the news.

WHEW, my heart started pumping again! Didn’t have to tell the wife the bad news after all.

Dr. Striker conferred with the bereaved widow for a few moments and then gave me the name of a local funeral home that could pick up Mr. Jones.

This little tale ends a short while later with my poor old new friend Mr. Jones rolling out the door of the lab in a zippered shiny black bag.

Funeral home body

And so the curtain falls and the movie ends?

Yes and No.

When Mr. Jones woke up early that morning, he didn’t turn over, tenderly kiss his wife’s cheek and think to himself,

“This is the day I will die. I’m going to wait until I’m surrounded by strangers and then croak”.

He may have had an inkling that because he wasn’t feeling very well that time was running short, but nothing as dramatic as pegging out in a 3rd floor medical laboratory. This would never have been in his plans as he pulled the door closed to his house a final time.

It doesn’t really matter if I die like Mr. Jones. There are far worse ways to reach the end, but Mr. Jones’ death is just the start of a message I took away from this event. It reminds me that, short of suicide, we don’t have the choice of where and when we’ll expire. The day arrives and it … just happens.

I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

Woody Allen

What matters more than how or where we die, is how we live. We have the capacity, no matter our lot, to find fulfillment in our days. It comes down to choice.

It’s complicated and it’s messy… but it’s simple, really.

Hope Flower

All we HAVE to do is Die…


It’s kind of cheering to read this, isn’t it? ALL WE HAVE TO DO IS DIE…everything else is a choice (yes, even taxes!).

This may not be an original thought – what is? I read this line in another blogger’s post the other day and it pierced like a sharp Hattori knife through to my core. It’s harsh and perhaps a bit unsettling, and probably even complicates life somewhat, but I think it can also be freeing.

all we have to do is die

And it reminded me that choice in life is one of my core beliefs. We can choose to do. We can choose to be.

Sure we have to eat and drink to sustain life, but so many things we think we have to do are things that we choose to do. It’s like the difference between needs and wants.

Do we make the choices we do because:

  • society (family, friends, media) dictates it
  • we feel an obligation to do it
  • we fear loss or punishment
  • we don’t see any other options
  • the benefits are greater than the drawbacks
  • it’s enjoyable or rewarding
  • it’s the easy thing to do

Life is like WalMart (this is in addition to Forrest Gump‘s box of chocolates!). We wander the aisles of selection, the shelves are stuffed to the rafters, full of alternatives, and we can choose to nab the items we want or amble by to another aisle. For example, we could put a career choice, a partner, a pair of shoes into our basket. Do we ever ask ourselves, “Why did I pick that job? Why do I eat? Why did I get married or not get married? Why do I go out with friends? Why did I buy a new car?”

And even after make our selections, do we then ask ourselves, “Am I happy? Is what I’m doing really fulfilling and meaningful? When I arrive at the time of my death, will I look back at my life and be happy about what I did, or will I have regrets?”


 The only thing people really have in common is that they are all going to die”

-Bob Dylan


Choice in life means lots of good things but it also brings with it…wait for it…responsibility. Being rational and adult means there are consequences to every choice. This is why choice can be so rewarding but also so damned messy and difficult. It takes thought and judgment and it can be painful. It’s hard work!

I can choose to quit my job tomorrow, but the consequence becomes a loss of a paycheque and all of the details that entails. How will I pay for food and lodging and entertainment and a hundred other things? So, do I absolutely hate my job? Could I find something I might like to do instead if I went to college for a year? Could I move to a smaller town where the costs of living are lower and the need for more income would be lessened? With enough thought, effort, and often courage, we can find a more satisfying choice.

Over twenty years ago, I chose to work just 3 days each week so that I could actively participate in raising my kids (now there’s a decision they regret!). There were lots of questioning glances at my withdrawal from western culture’s expectation of what a father’s and breadwinner’s role should be. This choice meant a lower income and driving slightly older cars, and not having magazine-perfect furniture as society told me would be appropriate. But it’s a choice my wife and I made and have never regretted. Believe me, not every choice that I’ve made has been as easy to declare a success.


As we go through life, we need to ask ourselves tough questions and then answer honestly. Living life like there are few choices can be a simpler existence. But for me, life is richer when filled with choosing the paths I want to wander. The paths may be tangled by weeds at times, but at least they are heading in the direction of my choosing.

I think making choices consciously gives us freedom and a sense of honesty within ourselves.  Most of us spend much of our lives making choices based on false assumptions and beliefs drilled into us as children. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy promotes “thought challenging”- questioning our basic assumptions from different angles to help us make better choices.

When I was a kid, I was told that God and Heaven existed and that there was no need to question that belief. I was also told that going to university was necessary if I wished to live a “good” life. I was told that sexual intercourse was something preserved until marriage vows had been exchanged. I was told that men marry women and women marry men. I was told that after I married a woman, I would buy a house and have children. I was on a pre-determined train track and would chug along in the direction that track took me on.

All of the above were absolutes. But now I know that they are all choices. Everything but dying is a maybe.


Lance Armstrong made choices that most of us likely think of as flawed and of poor moral backing. No matter what he says, he knew what he was doing was illegal and cheating. He lied to cover it up. BUT…he made a choice to use drugs and illegal methods to accomplish something that was deeply desirable to him. The benefits were greater than the consequences in his mind. The possible outcomes were something that he chose to live with in order to win big.  That he didn’t believe he would be caught and disciplined suggests to me that he wasn’t making conscious AND conscientious choices. Narcissism perverted his ability to make respectable choices, for himself, and others. Choices can be messy.


Mommy made the choice to “put out”…here’s her consequence…


We try to find our happiness through periods of life that include birth, aging, sickness and death. Any pleasure and success we have is not going to run in unending, neat straight lines. But we can make the conscious choices that reflect our own core beliefs and desires, not those dictated by what’s going on around us.

Didn’t we all have childhood dreams of what we might do or be in life? It’s never too late to be what you might have been.

We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us.”

–Ken Levine


Today I Am…Tomorrow I Can Be…


News item from Westover (Me.) weekly Enterprise, August 19, 1966: RAIN OF STONES REPORTED.”

Cover of "Carrie"

This is the opening line to Stephen King’s first published novel, CARRIE, a story about a poor little high-school girl with menstrual problems who uses her newly discovered telekinetic powers to exact revenge on those who tease her. Sort of a man’s take on PMS!

I’m not, or at least I wasn’t, a huge fan of author Stephen King. Widely known for his populist horror thrillers, he’s sold bazillions of books, most of which have been made into movies with varying levels of success.

At this point, with his name recognition and popularity, Stephen King could write a COOKBOOK highlighting the culinary use of all of the bloody, dismembered human bodies he’s written of in his novels – now add in one cup of eviscerated intestine –  and it would become an instant bestseller. Fully-coloured, glossy photographs and all…it will make a great Christmas gift!  I’m envious and amazed at what King has accomplished in his genre of literature.

I could list for you a number of people in my own circle who I know and love that I think are amazing (I won’t because if I missed one by accident, I would look like a dick). There is also a bunch of well-known people in this world I admire. I may not necessarily LIKE them – I don’t need to like them, to appreciate their accomplishments – but I admire their creativity or thinking abilities, or physical prowess- and in either case, I think it comes down to the notion that they have developed amazing capabilities of focus and drive to make something where there was nothing before.

A current short list of these people for me might look like:

  • Stephen King
  • Aaron Sorkin– brilliant TV and movie screenwriter of superb dialogue with credits such as West Wing, The Newsroom, and The Social Network
  • Lance Armstrong– with or without drugs, he climbed mountains – competing against other similarly drug-pumped athletes – with fantastic determination and strength of will.
  • Hillary Clinton– unshakable and smart, and part of two “dream” teams of which she could easily have been the leader…Bill Clinton’s and Barak Obama’s.
  • Payton Manning– an NFL quarterback (silly, I know) who plays a brawny game like a brainy chess master.
  • Sarah McLachlan- Canadian singer/songwriter with such a great voice that also speaks for women’s, children’s, and animal issues.

I’ll likely never be a famous songwriter/singer like James Taylor. I’ll likely never be a famous writer like Stephen King. Actually – although I hope this isn’t true – I may never write a book…EVER. And yet, my desire to be creative has never been stronger.

For years, I’ve allowed my creativity to be governed. I’ve spent the majority of my life concerned about what others think…about me and the things I do. I’ve worked really hard to not look dumb, to not embarrass myself and others around me. I’ve pigeon-holed myself based on a litany of voices in my head that say I SHOULD get a good university education, I SHOULD get married, I SHOULD have 2.5 children, I SHOULD be nice to everyone, I SHOULD chew my food with my mouth closed…I SHOULD SHOULD SHOULD. And to quote a dubiously-famous motivator, Anthony Robbins:

I SHOULD all over myself” 

But back to Stephen King. King has reminded me that we don’t have to be those things that others, or ourselves, tell us we should be. He has written library shelves full of books that are largely horror. He 65 years old now and could just get up each morning and shuffle over to his La-Z-Boy chair and enjoy a life of total leisure. Or…he could continue to easily and systematically pump out – like a weekly Harlequin romance novel – more of his standard horror fare and make Brink’s armoured-truck loads of money.

So what HAS he done?

He threw the “SHOULD HAVE” in the trash. In the past year, he wrote and published another novel called “11/22/63”. HORROR?…nope…at least not in the sense that we tend to think of horror. I guess that a story about someone perched in a 6th floor window overlooking a crowded Dallas, Texas street and taking a murderous rifle shot at the head of the sitting American President could be considered horror.

But his book is a well-researched and intriguingly-written novel based on a true historic and history-changing event in modern times. Even though I was just 6 years old at the time, I can remember when I heard about John F. Kennedy’s assassination. It was that big a deal! King develops fully-fleshed out characters and complex situations that are totally removed from his usual fantastical horror creations. It’s a great book from an unexpected source.

How and why did he take the leap to this?

Sorry if you expect me to have the answer here, but…Well, honestly, I don’t know. Boredom?  Desire to write in a more “respectable” genre? Nightmares that wouldn’t rest until he wrote the dreams down?

What I really like here, and what I personally take from this is that we don’t have to be the things we tell ourselves we should or must be—

Horror writer today, historic fiction-writer tomorrow…

Health care worker today, entrepreneur tomorrow…

Bank employee today, college instructor tomorrow…

Concert violinist today, Country fiddle player tomorrow…

Stand aside…I’m making the LEAP!

Ten years ago I was working with bacteria, doing lab tests day in and day out. Throat cultures for Strep, urine cultures for E. coli, vaginal cultures for yeast. It was fun and interesting at the beginning of my career 20 years earlier but it became as boring as watching gonorrhoea bacteria grow.

Computers were just becoming big in clinical labs, and so I took a course on data management and reporting. I learned and learned, and taught myself more and some more still until I became the  lab data expert, another nerdy kind of role. But it was different nerdy. It challenged my mind every day, and now I don’t work with the smelly, yucky specimens. Today, I work in the lab world still, but in a different “country” within the lab. But this world too will grow routine someday soon, and so I’m thinking about where the next challenge lies.

Our lives, like plants in a garden oasis, are living things that need to be thought about, tended, and nurtured. Seasons change, some plants die back, others thrive and grow stronger in the coming spring. We plant fresh seeds.

Change can be a frightening thing, but my experiences have ultimately shown me that it’s exhilarating too. Feelings of disappointment, frustration, loss, or general sadness that go on and on tell me that now is the time to begin the search for the counterbalancing positive to them. Emerson referred to it as the “Law of Compensation”… an opposite condition must emerge to offset the initial condition.

To be in the driver’s seat of change and to make the parachute jump out of the airplane is terrifying and tremendous at the same time. I think that Stephen King- just like you and me who pulls on his or her pants one leg at a time– was needing to feel a brisk, fresh wind in his face, strapped on his parachute, yelled

Today I am…Tomorrow I Can Be…”


and took the big jump!

Coffee, Tea, or Me… Sadly Seeking The MRS. Degree


(A wrinkle-free ME in 1974…a true Chick Magnet!)

Yesterday I received a FACEBOOK friend request from M, a former school classmate of mine from Glendale Secondary in Hamilton, Ontario.

I immediately went and checked my 1974 high school year book to see if the new friend was who I envisioned. She was.

(Pet Peeve Time…I hate that I can’t identify or locate my female friends from years gone by because they now have a married name. Can we stop mucking with peoples’ identities?). 

I began reading through the little written blurbs accompanying the photo of each of my graduating classmates, telling of their pet peeves and aspirations for life. My blurb really sucked. It said absolutely nothing meaningful about me…which, when I think about it, maybe best summed up who I was at the time. I was chubby and pimply, and truly HAD little meaningful to say! Precious stuff, that! But I digress…

My new “friend” M (who, BTW, was much cuter than I was handsome… I wasn’t in her league), along with most of the girls from my graduating cohort, wanted to be a stewardess or a secretary… and a Mom. What young lady wouldn’t want to be paid to serve a man- whether on an airplane or in an office, Mad Men-style–  until Mr. Right comes along and puts a ring on it? Both fine occupations while waiting to obtain their MRS. degrees… but neither holds a financial candle or esteem-building heft approaching that of a “man”‘s career.

Girls were 2nd class citizens waiting for a man to make them whole!

This reminded me of the old teaser question from my youth: 

A boy is brought to the hospital ER needing emergency surgery after a horrific car crash. His father was badly hurt in the accident as well. When the boy is rolled into the OR for the operation, the surgeon ambles to his bedside and says, “I can’t operate on this boy, he’s MY SON”.

Whoa…the big perplexing question posed here is…how is this possible?

The answer is EASY, the surgeon is the boy’s Mommy.  Surprise!!

AND WE WERE surprised…In those days…

Today, this scenario doesn’t raise an eyebrow, which is as it should be.

Imagine, the youngster’s mother was neither a stewardess nor a secretary- she was a high-powered surgeon, a man’s lofty profession. There’s nothing wrong with these career choices from an earlier era but if I envision the almost inevitable future single Mom (or newly “Gay Mom“) with these jobs, I don’t see a solid financial future. I abhor that too many girls have raised their kids alone and on minimum wage pay.

But things change. There are now more young women enrolled in medicine, law, education administration, and accounting across North America than men – but not yet engineering. In today’s world, the bigger problem for both young men and women seems not a shortage of career choices but a surfeit…how does one narrow down the selection and actually come to a decision?

If I read the yearbook of today’s young graduate, how many of the girls’ blurbs would demonstrate a burning desire to be a secretary or flight attendant (the least I can do is update the jargon from “stewardess”)?

I was reading another blog (Analyfe) the other day that contained this quote from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

And like Sylvia Plath’s figs, many of today’s young women and men struggle with the fateful decision of which occupational road to choose. They go to university, or take year or two out of school, not knowing or able to decide a direction to follow…frozen like deer in the headlights.

The huge Wal Mart-esque academic shelves are filled to overflowing with possibility and they can’t decide.

And so I have some thoughts to pass on to the girls of today.

  • Don’t be Afraid to Decide– as Nike ads state, “Just Do It”. We all make bad choices, but a bad decision is better than no decision at all. Career choices can be changed 5 times or more in today’s world.
  • Don’t Look For a Man To Save You– we men have shown in recent years that we don’t have the balls to support ourselves, much less you and our kids (Man-BOYS). Love us but don’t be dependent on us.
  • Dream Big, Work Hard– realize that you probably have more potential than you give yourself credit for. Persevere, be tenacious, and make yourself proud.

The ending to this story is that my Facebook friend M didn’t become a stewardess… sorry, flight attendant, after all. She made a career selection that allows her to use her creative strengths and shows that she can be a determined supporter for herself.

Finally young ladies, I’d like to say, be better than me…hell…it’s just not that hard!

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